


Pipe Song

by Mistress_Siana



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Drug Addiction, Gen, Mutilation, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2012-06-15
Packaged: 2017-11-07 19:03:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mistress_Siana/pseuds/Mistress_Siana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this prompt on the sherlockbbc_fic kinkmeme: Someone (can be a stranger) tries (or actually manages) to mug/rape Molly. Sherlock goes BAMF.</p><p>A crime hits too close to home, and Sherlock discovers that John was wrong. Caring does not make him a better person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pipe Song

Molly didn't quite make it to the bathroom. She rolled out of her bed, still dressed but for her shoes, and stumbled halfway through the hallway before being sick all over a flower pot. She felt better for all of one second, slightly dizzy and absurdly glad that her hair was still tied back in a ponytail, before the headache registered and her temples exploded in white-hot pain. 

She'd last felt so miserable on a Channel crossing in early January, when the wind had been nasty and the toilets had been filled with sick about as soon as the lights of Dunkirk had been out of sight. There were two stages of seasickness, a friend of hers had once said, back in General Surgery. One, you think you're about to die. Two, you realise you're not about to die anytime soon, and that's the worse part. Molly couldn't remember his name. 

In spite of herself, she laughed. Bloody North Sea had nothing on piña coladas. Maybe there had even been a Long Island Ice Tea in the mix. Molly cringed, staring at the rhododendron she'd been sick in. The rhododendron looked unfazed. 

Tea and aspirin, she thought, maybe tea _with_ aspirin. That's what she needed. With an extra spoonful of sugar to stop her hands from shaking. 

She didn't remember much after the Long Island of Doom, not even how she'd got home. Mike, perhaps. Had to be Mike. Dear sweet old Mike. She shuffled into her kitchen, avoiding direct sunlight. She almost giggled. She hadn't had a night like that in ages. Three cheers for Barts Christmas parties. 

She saw she had a text message. Mike. _Sorry I left early. Got home alright?_

Strange. Very strange. There was an odd kind of feeling somewhere in her guts, and she very deliberately chose to ignore it. Something wasn't right. 

She put the kettle on, grabbed an extra large mug, and opened a fresh package of tea. When she reached for the milk, her sleeve slipped down her arm and revealed a bruise around her wrist. Nothing big, nothing painful, all in all entirely unsuspicious. 

Unless you did post-mortems for a living. 

Molly stared at her hand, unblinking. The milk was a day past its use by date, she observed. She didn't know what else to think.

**-**

Mrs Hudson was nice, and Molly hoped Sherlock treated her well. You never quite knew with Sherlock. Molly could see her wince, just a little, with every step she took up the stairs. 

'It's okay,' Molly said. 'I'm a friend of Sherlock's, actually.'

Mrs Hudson looked at her with surprise for a second, then caught herself and smiled. Sherlock didn't have many friends, then. 

-

He didn't look up when she entered. He was wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown, sitting half-hidden behind books and a microscope. 

'Ah, Molly. I was going to stop by this afternoon. Do you have the thumbs?'

She hesitated. 

'I'm not here for that, actually.' She should probably stop saying actually, she thought. 

'Oh?'

Sherlock looked up.

'You're in a right state, Molly. Do you want me to tell you what you did last night?'

When Molly didn't answer, it took him all of two seconds to understand. 

'You _do_ want me to tell you what you did last night.' 

His sudden undivided attention made her flinch. There was a strange flicker of emotion in his eyes as he studied her from head to toe – her unwashed hair, her clothes from the day before. She had joked about this once, with a friend, she remembered: that she'd have to turn herself into a piece of evidence to make him notice her. The thought very nearly made her laugh. 

'What do you remember?' he asked. 

She tried to read something into his voice, but it didn't work. 

Then she told him. About cocktails and dancing and getting her coat and then nothing. That her body felt strange. That she had bruises that indicated a struggle. 

He watched her, silently, for what seemed like ages to her. She couldn't read his expression, but something about it made her pull her coat tighter around herself.

'No police?' he asked, finally. 

She shook he head weakly, hoping he wouldn't push the matter. She knew what she should have done. She knew what she would have urged anyone else to do, in her position. _It's different when it's you,_ she thought; that's what people said. She wished it wasn't true. 

He simply nodded, to her relief, and rose from his chair in a sudden fit of energy. Molly looked away. She knew what he would have to ask her. 

'I need to see the bruises.'

Strange, that. Once or maybe twice she had indulged in a fantasy that involved her undressing in front of Sherlock Holmes. Even that had been awkward; she could never manage to make him quite like, well, him. She wondered if he could tell. 

She slipped out of her coat, baring her arms and shoulders. Sherlock stepped closer, quietly, and took her right arm. 

He looked at her wrist carefully, then let go of her hand and brushed a strand of hair aside to examine her shoulder. His hands were warm, she observed. She didn't know why, but she took it as a comfort. He paused and Molly could feel him straighten. She'd have liked to skip the next step. 

'Molly.' She believed there was a hint of sympathy in his voice. 'All of them.'

Molly squeezed her eyes shut; she needed a moment. She knew it was absurd, but she felt a strange need to say sorry for everything that came after that: for shivering so badly when she pulled her dress up and her knickers down, for not stopping herself from crying when he examined the nasty blue shape on her hipbone, for pointy elbows and biting nails and for not having showered since the morning before. He took her apart the way a photographer would, looking for the best picture. Molly suddenly wondered if she looked like that too, sometimes, turning bodies inside out. 

Finally, he nodded and turned away, leaving her to rearrange her clothes. He left the room and returned a moment later with a small package. A syringe. 

'I need a blood sample,' he said. 

Molly nodded quietly and noticed her hands were still shaking. As did he, apparently. 

'Can you do it?'

'I'm a doctor,' she said, perhaps a little too brusquely. 

'I didn't question that.' 

He regarded her with a lopsided half-smile that felt oddly reassuring. She reached out to take the package, and Sherlock caught hold of her hand. 

'You've broken a fingernail,' he said.

She watched calmly as he examined her, but when he let go, she caught his hand and, just for a moment, held it. He let her, to her surprise, and she immediately felt silly for it. 

'Molly. Blood sample.' 

Some part of her wished she had stayed at home, with a hot bath and a bottle of red, and tried her best to forget.

-

Molly wiped a drop of blood from her arm. She'd managed to steady her hand, but suspected there would be some bruising. Some more. She wanted to go home. 

Sherlock emerged from his bedroom, fully dressed, and called for Mrs Hudson. 

'I need to see your flat,' he said. 'Exactly as it is now, and alone. Mrs Hudson will make you tea.'

Molly grimaced. 

'She said she's your landlady, actually, not your housekeeper.'

He grinned.

'Oh, you'll get along.' 

 

+++

 

It was raining. Sherlock was sitting in a cab, watching the city drift past the window without paying attention. 

He could have told Molly straightaway that she'd had intercourse the night before. That the coffee stain on the hem of her dress had already told him she'd been drugged; he merely needed the blood sample to prove it. He could have told her, too, that he recognised the handwriting, all over her body, as clear as ink on paper. 

He imagined John sitting next to him, looking pointedly out of the window, with a look that said he was making an immense effort in giving Sherlock the benefit of doubt - _any particular reason you didn't tell her?_

'Because of what happened last time,' Sherlock said to the empty seat beside him. 

The cabbie spared him a quick glance in the rear view mirror and went back to ignoring him. This was London after all; she'd probably heard stranger things.

**-**

Last time, that was Laurie Appleby. 

When he met her, she had spent the best part of the day at the police station, sitting stoically through questions and examinations, while Sergeant Donovan was getting out of her depth. Laurie Appleby knew she had been raped, but had no memories of the event and showed no outward signs. Donovan believed her, but her colleagues were starting to grow impatient. 

Sherlock ran into her by the coffee machine. 

'Eight cups in two hours. I'm impressed.'

Sally Donovan tilted her head, curls falling onto her shoulder. She was about to say something, but Sherlock cut her off. 

'The stains in the cup. They're like tree rings.'

She smiled broadly. 

'You're Sherlock Holmes,' she said. 'I think I have a case for you.' 

-

'I'm not making it up,' Laurie Appleby said when Sherlock shook her hand. 

He nodded.

'Do you have an old injury of the knee that hurt again unexpectedly this morning?' 

She gasped. 

'A riding accident. Why?'

He could tell immediately that she'd spent a considerable length of time in a position that would have been unbearably painful had she been conscious. He also knew that the marks on her heels were the result of her being dragged into a car, and that the crease pattern on the back of her blouse came from the buckle of a safety belt. 

'You're not,' he said. 

'Not what?'

'Making it up, of course.' 

When he explained his line of deduction, Laurie Appleby broke into tears. 

'Thank you,' she whispered. 'Oh God, thank you.'

Sally Donovan was shaking her head. 

'You're extraordinary,' she said. 

That was before they learnt of his arrest for cocaine possession – the reason he'd been in the building in the first place. Sherlock was doubtful they'd have cared much, if forensics hadn't failed to turn up a single valuable piece of evidence, and if, therefor, the case hadn't depended on his credibility. In the end, some DCI somewhere decided there wouldn't be an investigation. Sherlock was livid and tried to push Lestrade to put in a word. 

Lestrade looked pained. 

'Sherlock,' he said, and Sherlock gave a cold, short laugh. He had been Holmes until then. 

'Show me your arm.' 

'This is ridiculous. My mind is immaculate.'

'Sherlock. Your arm.'

He rolled up his sleeve; out of spite, mostly. There was a look of almost-sadness on Lestrade's face as he studied the numerous puncture marks. He shook his head. 

'I can't. Sorry. Not when all I've got is the word of a drug addict.'

-

The cabbie reminded Sherlock faintly of Mrs Hudson, and he tipped her generously. He turned up his collar, looking for Molly's flat. 

He'd always known he'd meet him again. A rapist who left no trace whatsoever - that was either a complete accident or meticulous planning, and the former was spectacularly unlikely. This man was an artist, a hunter. Sherlock found the stairs to the house where Molly had her flat. Well, he thought. So am I. 

-

Six weeks after her case had been dismissed, Laurie Appleby had been found dead at Liverpool Street under the 5.48 from Southend Victoria. At 5.47 Sherlock had received a text message: _thank you Mr Holmes, I appreciate that you tried._

**-**

Sherlock wrote John a quick text, telling him to collect a jar of thumbs from Barts. Then he let himself into Molly Hooper's flat. 

There were two locks on her door, one recently changed. Eight keys on Molly's keychain, none clearly marked as front door. He ran his fingers over the brand new lock and smiled. Recent scratches. 

He walked through her flat, not touching anything. Shoes behind the door. New carpet. Family photos in the living room. Father, a doctor, deceased. Brother, either an accountant or a pharmacist. An Irish Wolfhound with a beginning cataract. A self help book: _The Laws of Attraction,_ paperback edition. A half-eaten tin of home-made biscuits. 

Bathroom, cluttered. 

Bedroom. He could feel a wave of cold fury spread through his body. I will hunt you, he thought. I will hunt you down, and that will be the end of you.

_No, try again. Focus on the details._

Bedroom. Pastel colours. A sock pile on the floor. Books, lots of books; mostly on medicine and forensic science, a fantasy novel on the bedside table. 

Fantasy. _The Laws of Attraction._ Biscuits. No photo of her mother. Sherlock went back into the living room. 

'I got you,' he said out loud. 

There was no dust on the shelf where Molly kept her family photos - hard to know for certain if one was missing, but he was sure there must have been a picture of her mother. 

Readers of self-help books were serial offenders, and there was only one in Molly's flat (unread; a gift). 

Paperback, no card (informal). 

Relationship advice (patronising). 

Placed, maybe subconsciously, on the shelf with the family photos, together with a tin of home-made biscuits (a recent visit from a family member; female - Molly had no sisters, so probably her mother). 

There were photographs of her father, her brother, even the family dog. Whoever had made the gift was missing from the gallery, and Molly wasn't the type to hold grudges. She would have stopped speaking to him long ago if she did. Somebody had taken it, someone who wanted a souvenir. Add the lock that was recently opened by someone who didn't know which key to use, and you get a psychopath. 

Sherlock could see him. A phantom, walking through Molly's flat, looking at her family photos. What did he want? Be part of a family? 

'Help yourself, if you like a biscuit.'

Molly was standing behind him. He had to admit he hadn't heard her coming. 

'Sorry. Mrs Hudson had to see someone about her arthritis. I felt strange sitting in her kitchen, all by myself. She's nice.' She winced. 'So, did you? Did you find something?'

Within a split second, he made the decision to lie. 

'No,' he said. 'What about you? Did you see anything unusual?' 

He was standing between her and the picture shelf, making sure she wouldn't notice if a photo was missing.

Molly shook her head. 

'Good,' she said. 'That's good, isn't it?'

 

**+++**

**  
**

He could feel the cut right above his upper lip. He'd slipped. He hated slipping. There even was a drop of blood on the blade; he would have to replace it. He ran his hand along his jawline, convinced he could feel the prickle of a beginning stubble again. His skin felt sore and sensitive, and he winced. 

He was more animal than man.

He wished he could turn invisible. 

She had been nice, almost perfect. Quiet. A little smile on her face. He liked the colours of her room. He liked her hair: clean, soft, light. 

She looked so much like her mother. 

He had taken the photo out of the frame to avoid seeing his reflection in the glass. One thing that never went away was the terror that they might open their eyes. He calculated the dose carefully, he was no killer. Would not be a killer. He was above that. Killing was for amateurs who didn't know how to hide their traces. 

How to be invisible. 

He was a part of so many people's lives; knew so many secrets. If Molly knew how much he cared, she would be impressed. He'd make her pancakes the way she liked them. She would appreciate the gesture, even if she couldn't bear to look at him. He would never make them look at him. That would be cruel. 

He liked to imagine she dreamt of him when they were together; dreamt a better, handsome version of him, someone she wouldn't feel ashamed to take home to her parents. 

He had pleased her. He always took great care of that. The way her body had responded to his touch had told him everything he needed to know. He always took his time. He made sure they liked it - he was no monster, after all. 

 

+++

 

The clock on the worktop read 11.30 and Molly, standing alone in her kitchen, suddenly realised how tired she was. She would finally have that tea, she decided, and then try to find some proper sleep. 

She'd had a shower, knowing it would pretty much put a stamp on her choice not to go to the police. For some reason, she felt calmer now. She'd have liked to throw the dress away, too, but had decided against it. She'd loved it when she put it on, but wasn't so sure anymore. She'd spent most of her late teens watching her dad die, and had never quite managed to catch up on the dress-to-impress game. With the wrong people, that dress would raise eyebrows. The wrong people would look at it and say, _well, Miss Hooper, it seems you were after some action..._

Molly knew police talk. She'd had coppers in her mortuary who still used the _women_ prefix to talk about their female colleagues, even those who outranked them. Especially those who outranked them. 

She put the kettle on and reminded herself to keep calm. Sherlock would tell her if she had anything to worry about. Maybe he had already concluded that she'd slipped and fallen on her way home; maybe he would sneer at her and call her boring. For once, boring sounded very, very good to her.

 

**+++**

**  
**

_I'm in Dublin. No, really. Nice weather, food at The Chophouse is delicious. DUBLIN, Sherlock._

Sherlock smirked at the text message. Well. He was going to stop by at Barts anyway, he supposed he could walk the extra two stairs. The raindrops had turned into steady drizzle, and Sherlock wiped a wet strand of hair out of his eyes. He hailed a cab. Let's have a little chat with Stamford, he thought. 

Laurie Appleby had been a toxicologist at the Royal London. He had found her in her lab when he delivered the message that her case had been frozen. She'd nodded briefly, putting a test mouse into a glass case. 

'This isn't gonna be pretty,' she'd said. 'Gotta do what you gotta do.'

He remembered her vividly. Naturally; there was a criminal at large, and his memory of her was the most important piece of evidence he had. Years later, he finally had a pattern. 

-

Stamford was crouched over a petri dish and pipette, looking miserable. 

'Hungover?' 

Stamford grimaced. 

'To be fair, though, my grandmother could have deduced that. I'm not impressed.'

'I didn't need to deduce anything. Rumours precede you.' 

'You should have been there, you know? You're sort of part of the team.'

Sherlock gave him a sideways glance that, he hoped, wouldn't leave any question as to what he thought of the idea. 

'And they had excellent Scotch,' Stamford offered. 

'I hear Molly had quite the night.'

Stamford paused. 

'Why?'

'I'm just making conversation.'

'You never just make conversation. Anything wrong?'

'Why would you think anything was wrong?'

'I'm not. I'm asking you.'

'Your first instinct was to assume our Miss Hooper got herself into some kind of trouble. That's interesting, don't you think?'

Stamford looked pained. 

'She was drunk. Really drunk, I mean. More than I've ever seen her. I had a strange feeling.'

'Just a feeling.'

'A complex psychophysiological experience originating in the limbic system. You must have had one or two yourself.'

'Did she talk to someone? Did she leave with someone?'

Stamford looked up, his tired face lighting up for a moment. 

'Jealous?'

Sherlock looked away pointedly.

'Please.'

Stamford laughed. 

'No, actually, she didn't,' he continued. 'Not to my knowledge anyway, and you know this place. People talk.' 

He grinned and shook his head. Sherlock tried hard not to roll his eyes. 

The hangover seemed to get the better of Stamford, and they worked in silence. 

He hadn't seen Laurie's death coming, and he didn't know what he would have done if he had. He didn't feel the misplaced guilt that seemed customary in people who failed to predict a suicide. He got the news from the evening paper, acknowledged it, and reminded himself the police had failed her, not he. He had no trouble falling asleep. He saw two clients the next day, solving one case in under five minutes. He got his hair cut. He ordered restricted chemicals online with Mycroft's security clearing. He played the violin. Then, he took a needle to his arm and died. 

'Sherlock.'

Stamford was looking at him with arched brows. He had a result.

****

**-**

Sherlock found it hard to suppress a grin as he sped down the stairs, a jar of thumbs in his hand. He had a lead. Last time he'd had been a step behind, but that had changed. The latest results confirmed his suspicions. Now came the fun part. 

He wrapped his coat around him, looking for a flyer he'd seen on the way in. The annual nurses' ball (with karaoke), the coming Friday. Three days after Molly had been assaulted. He supposed it was a long shot, but he couldn't afford not to try. 

Sergeant Donovan would be thrilled. 

-

She fished her car keys out of her pockets, yawning, only to find Sherlock Holmes leaning against her car. She looked genuinely startled for a second, then caught herself. 

'Creeping on women in car parks now?'

'Sergeant Donovan.' He smiled. 'Would you go out with me?'

She tilted her head, lips curving into a teeth-baring sneer, and laughed. 

'Alright. It's official then, you've gone mad. Do you want me to call a doctor, a shrink, anyone?' 

'I have a rat to catch. I need a decoy.' 

She snorted. 

'Me. You want me?'

'The Appleby case. He's back.'

Sally froze. They stood in silence for some time, her gaze burning with well-cultivated anger.

'Did you know I went to her funeral?' she asked, eventually. 

'I was inconvenienced.' 

She regarded him quietly, her features betraying a hint of sympathy. 

Of course. People had talked. 

'It's freezing,' she said. 'Mind if we sit in the car?'

Her sudden cordiality amused him. In hindsight, he supposed his silly flirtation with cocaine had been guaranteed to get out of control at one point or other. His overdose following Laurie Appleby's suicide had been a coincidence. If Sergeant Donovan took it as an admission of guilt, all the better. It obviously made her easier to work with. 

He sank down in the passenger seat of her ridiculously small car, and Sally turned on the heating. 

'So. He's back, you say.'

'I'm not sure he was ever gone.'

She tensed visibly, and he smiled. 

'I always knew he would have to cross my path again, sooner or later.' 

He didn't quite manage to hide the excitement in his voice, and she didn't quite manage to hide the complacency in hers. 

'This is all still just a game for you, isn't it? Are you gonna bugger off to get high again? Cause you do that when you get bored.'

'Not this time.' 

He turned to her, looking her straight in the eyes. Sally held his gaze longer and more firmly than most, but in the end, she looked away. 

'Why the secrecy? Why not go through official channels?' she asked. 

'My client asked for privacy.' 

'Is your client a victim?'

Sherlock nodded. He was beginning to feel impatient. 

'Alright,' she said, finally. 'Let's do it. What's the profile?' 

'You're a nurse.'

'Kinky.'

 

+++

 

For some reason, Molly avoided her bed. She had changed the sheets, then went out for a late night shopping at Asda and bought a whole new duvet. A plant, too. Ivy. I didn't help. Her bedroom felt unfamiliar, like a hotel on the first night. Someone's else's sheets, someone else's dreams. 

She moved to the sofa with her new duvet, trying to fall asleep to repeats of Embarrassing Bodies. At three in the morning, she found herself wondering where the hell all that time had gone. She didn't remember thinking anything at all in the past couple of hours. 

She thought about sex, sometimes. Nothing specific, just glimpses of hands on her body and her lips on somebody else's, and felt wrong for it. Like that was the last thing she should be thinking about in her situation, whatever her situation was. She knew it was absurd. Had it been anyone else but her, she would have known what to say. She frowned at her own confusion, and got up to make tea.

 

+++

 

****

On Friday afternoon, Sherlock opened the door and saw John's suitcase standing in the living room. He knew immediately that something was different. The flat had been searched, albeit very subtly. John emerged from his bedroom. 

Sherlock laughed.

'You've been talking to Mycroft,' he said. 

John made a nondescript noise of agreement. 

'I had a limousine waiting for me at the airport. Guess where that came from.' He shrugged pointedly to underline the absurdity of Mycroft's behaviour. 

Sherlock threw his coat over the sofa and went to check on a mould colony he'd left in the kitchen. 

'Whatever he told you, it was an honest overdose. I wouldn't _attempt_ suicide.'

John nodded, then furrowed his brows. Nodded again. 

'So,' he said, after a while. 'The word on the street is you're working on an old case.'

'I need to see if there's a connection.' It wasn't a complete lie. 

John moved the _European Pharmacopoeia_ from the free chair to the worktop and sat down. 

'Sherlock...'

'Ah, here we go.'

'Oh, of course, you know what I'm going to say.'

'Yes. It's your eyebrows. They're in a distinct _I'm about to say something caring and supportive_ position.'

'Is that so bad?'

'Tedious.'

'You were dead.'

'Only temporarily. 

Two minutes, six seconds. Mycroft's constant surveillance had saved his life. John snorted. Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned to face John. 

'I miscalculated. I learnt from my mistake. I got clean. That is all there is to it.'

John nodded, again, then shook his head. A thing he liked to do when he was conflicted, Sherlock had noticed. 

'It seems like such an odd choice, drugs. You don't even eat, most of the time.'

'Eating is boring.'

'And cocaine isn't boring.'

'No. It isn't.' 

He observed, with some surprise, that there was a trace of bitterness in his voice. 

John looked away, pinching his lips as though he was trying to stop the words from spilling out. Finally, he stood up and turned to leave. 

'John.' Sherlock looked over his shoulder. 'I am clean.' He spoke slowly, firmly, waiting for the words to sink in. He felt it necessary to remind John, who had faced war, Mycroft, and Moriarty with unfaltering stoicism but went to great length to avoid his alcoholic sister. He held Sherlock's gaze with the quiet resignation of a man who'd heard that kind of promise too often to believe it. 

'I'm not Harry,' Sherlock added.

He knew, then, that he wouldn't tell John. Which was amusing, in a way. John persistently demanded that he care more, and this time he did. He knew how hard it would be to produce evidence that would satisfy both the police and a jury, and he cared enough to consider a different solution. Sherlock suspected he would have to cross a line, and something in him didn't want John to know.

**-**

He met Sally outside the designated venue, around the corner of St Paul's. Her dress was expensive but a size too small, her high heels new and didn't quite fit. Sherlock felt amused for a split second before he realised it was deliberate. Sergeant Donovan's normal posture was unmistakably that of a policewoman; she'd picked clothes that made her uncomfortable and fidgety, and looked altogether less like her usual assertive self. 

She met his scrutiny with a wry smile. 

'So,' she said, 'I'm gonna sit at the bar, stare into my glass, and look lonely. What's your role? I'm expecting some karaoke.'

'Funny as always, Sally.'

'You can't just watch me all night. Too suspicious.' 

'He has no reason to believe he's being watched. He would think I'm checking you out.' He said the last words with pointed derision, and her eyes darkened. 

'I'm not doing this for _you_. Just so we're clear on this.'

'I know.'

Inside, a male nurse with a ponytail was in the middle of a song Sherlock vaguely remembered from his school days. 

He sat down on a bar stool several seats away from Sally and ordered a Scotch he had no intention of drinking. From the corner of his eyes, he could see Sally fidget with her glass.

The first man to engage her in a conversation was a real estate agent in a long distance relationship. Sherlock caught Sally's eye and slightly shook his head. 

Next, a group of seriously inebriated graduate students. 

Just over an hour later, Sally mouthed 'bathroom' in his direction and disappeared. Sherlock followed. He found Sally reading posters in the hallway, ignoring him until they were alone. 

'He's not here.'

'Yes, he is. You have to try harder.'

She was about to protest, but stopped herself. 

'Dance with me,' she said. 

'Pardon?'

'Dance with me. Show some interest, maybe he likes a competition. At least he'll know I'm desperate.' 

He pictured Molly, drinking cocktails with Stamford and dancing with friends. It wasn't a bad idea, all things considered. He smiled drily. 

'Sally,' he said, offering his hand, 'would you like to dance?'

She staggered slightly when they entered the dancefloor, catching his arm to steady herself. 

'Nice one,' he whispered in her ear. He meant it; she played drunk exceptionally well. 

Sally put her hand on his shoulder and laughed briefly. 

'I'm dancing with the freak,' she said. 'Who'd have thought?' 

He grinned. 

'Always a pleasure, Sally.'

She was close enough for him to smell her perfume, and something about it stroke him as odd. It wasn't part of the disguise; too expensive. Sentiment. A gift. No, an apology.

'So,' he said, 'Anderson's not divorcing his wife after all, then.'

He felt her grip on his shoulder tighten. 

'You really don't get why people hate you, do you?' 

He didn't reply and took care not to stand too close to her. He didn't want her to notice he was carrying John's gun in his jacket.

 

**+++**

**  
**

Sally Donovan was on her way home. She forced herself not to feel disappointed – been there, done that. The whole thing had been a shot in the dark anyway, even if – if – Sherlock had told her the truth. And she didn't know that, did she? She had little doubt he'd kept most of the story from her, but at the core, she believed him, even against better judgement.

Her feet hurt, and she winced. A rough estimate said she would have at least three blisters by the time she got home, four, maybe, if she didn't find a cab anytime soon. To hell with it, she thought. She slipped out of her high heels and walked on barefoot. She smiled. She hadn't done that in a while.

An ambulance on its way back to Barts slowed down beside her and lowered the window. 

'You alright, love?' came a voice from the inside. 

Sally couldn't make out the driver's face, but sent a 'cheers mate' sort of half-smile in his direction and wished him a good night. 

Only minutes later, when she stepped on a twig and was torn out of her thoughts, did she register the feeling of unease in the back of her mind. Sherlock had called off the action after barely two hours without visible signs of annoyance. She wouldn't expect a genuine display of emotions, but he wasn't one to take defeat lightly. 

She stopped.

In sudden panic, she turned to look for the ambulance that had passed her: it was gone. She took out her phone and dialed; F for Freak. 

'You little piece of shit,' she said when he answered. 'I know you can see me. Where are you?'

 

+++

 

'Fuck you,' she said, arms crossed before her, keeping her distance. 'Fuck you.' Her anger didn't quite conceal the fact that, if only briefly, she had been frightened. 

For a second, Sherlock considered apologising. 

He watched as Sally's eyes scanned the surroundings: the small, dim alley off the main road from where he'd watched her, the lights of Barts blurred by radiation fog, the broken street light. 

'There was no danger,' he said finally. 'I was right behind you. I expected he would be scared off once he discovered you weren't actually drunk.' 

She shook her head languidly, her mouth curving into a smile of utter contempt. 

'It was him, then. The ambulance. That's him.' 

'Yes.' He resisted the urge to congratulate her on her unusually speedy deduction; he needed her in an agreeable disposition. 

'Okay, listen,' she said, 'here's what's gonna happen. You tell me everything, no more secrets, or I'll make sure you'll never work again.' 

Her eyes were narrowed and gleaming with anger. Somewhere in the background a dog was barking, and it had begun to rain again. 

'Both women were medical professionals,' he said. 'They have nothing outwardly in common; it's likely they're merely victims of opportunity. By itself, that suggests the man we're looking for has a connection to the medical field himself.'

He paused a moment to let the information sink in. She looked skeptical but interested. 

'There were traces of zolpidem in my client's blood,' he continued. 

'Ambien?'

'Yes. Not routinely tested for, practically unheard of a few years ago.'

'I could check if they tested for it with Laurie.'

'They didn't. I remember.'

'You remember?'

'Yes. It wasn't on the list.' 

She furrowed her brows. 

'Shit,' she said. 'Medical knowledge.'

There was a hint of confounded admiration in her voice, and he was annoyed by how gratifying it felt. 

'He continually improves his method. Laurie was drugged and dragged into a car, but Molly followed him voluntarily. Accepted a cup of coffee, even; presumably containing the drug. There's a stain on her dress that is clearly black coffee, when her usual ambition seems to be to fit as much milk and sugar in a cup as humanly possible. Going by the stain pattern, she dropped the cup when the drug began to work. She wouldn't just hop in a van with anybody, but an ambulance? Oh, an ambulance is perfect. You would have to be very cynical not to trust an ambulance.' 

Sally was staring at him incredulously, and he immediately realised his mistake.

'Molly?' she asked. 'Our Molly?'

He studied her carefully and sensed she wouldn't believe him if he lied. He nodded. 

'Fuck.' She bit her hand and shook her head, keeping her eyes fixed on his. 'Fuck,' she said again. 

'Agreed.' 

'What did he do? What _exactly_ did he do?' Her voice was a low hiss by now, teeming with anger. 

'He drove her home, carried her to her bed, and had intercourse with her while she was unconscious.'

'He raped her. In her own bed.' 

'Yes.' 

Sally closed her eyes. 

'Sick fuck. _Sick fuck._ What a sick fuck.' 

She looked ridiculous, he thought; her hair damp from the drizzle and her shoes in her hand. A discreet noise from his pocket announced an incoming text message. 

'Mycroft,' he said. 'I sent him a picture of the registration plate.' He read the text. 'Private ambulance service, mainly hospital transfers. Staff of 12. And, thanks to CCTV, I know where it is.' 

'We need a search warrant.'

'Sally.'

'What?'

'Your naive faith in the justice system is touching, but think. _Think._ We don't have enough for a search warrant, let alone a conviction.' 

'What, then? What do we do?' 

'You go home and forget any of this ever happened. I'll deal with him.' 

Her face was tense with conflict, but the plain fact that she didn't ask what exactly 'dealing with him' entailed told him what he needed to know.

'You're sure?' she asked. 'You're absolutely sure it's him?' 

'He collects souvenirs. If I find them, it's him.'

She regarded him silently for a long while. She seemed tired. Sherlock wrapped his coat around him and watched his breath condensate in the air. For a second, he longed for a cigarette.

'You care, don't you,' she said quietly. 'You actually care about this.'

That word again. Why was it so important to everyone? At the end of the day, Molly was a statistic. One of 124 in England and Wales in the last 72 hours. The world, as it was, didn't altogether lend itself to caring. 

'Yes,' he said. 'I actually do.'

And then he laughed. 

 

**+++**

**  
**

He supposed it had been his own fault, in the end. He hadn't turned on the lights when he got home; he preferred darkness. He had been preoccupied thinking about the girl he'd met before. 

She'd seemed easy at first, but he'd soon realised she was different. She'd looked lonely, walking down the street all by herself with her shoes in her hand. He understood that. He understood loneliness. He'd been thinking about finding her again, taking care of her. Cooking for her, making sure she got her five a day. She was so skinny. He wasn't ready to let her see him yet, but they'd have got there, eventually. He'd had a very good feeling about her. 

He'd been tired, too. There had been a noise - a creek and a door hissing shut – that he'd blamed on old wood and cold air. He should have known better, of course. He knew better than anyone how easy it was to become invisible. So, when he woke up and saw the silhouette of a man standing by his bedside, he wasn't all that surprised. 

'I sent you a decoy,' the man said. 'How did you like it?'

Then, another sound. The clicking of a gun. 

 

+++

 

Finger curled around the trigger, Sherlock realised he'd underestimated the temptation. There was a suggestive elegance to a gunshot; a simple, clean solution. It would be easier. He'd enjoy it, even. That, too, came with caring: the desire to put a bullet through somebody's heart. He resisted. His profession would inadvertently make him a killer at one point or other, but it would not be for petty reasons. 

'It's alright,' he said, 'I'm not going to kill you. Get up.'

The man's name was Michael Bellsmythe. He was frightened and all the more compliant for it, like someone who solved a conflict by submission. He lived alone in a family sized flat, an office right below, three ambulances parked conveniently in the backyard. Sherlock assumed he'd inherited the business, but the only family photos in the flat belonged to other people, Molly's mother among them. 

Sherlock fished the keys to ambulance number two out of his pocket and throw it onto Bellsmythe's bed. 

'I need narcotics and a syringe,' he said. 

Bellsmythe, it seemed, took it he was being robbed for drugs and composed himself. Sherlock watched him scurry down the stairs ahead of him, in washed-out pyjamas, with the weird, slightly crouched posture of someone trying to hide one side of his face. Like a rat following a tune, Sherlock thought. 

He met no resistance whatsoever. Bellsmythe the Rat opened the ambulance in perfect obedience, shivering pitifully, and emptied the supplies cabinets without a word. It was so easy Sherlock felt disappointed. 

'Prepare an anaesthetic for emergency surgery,' he said. 'For a man of, let's say, your size and weight.'

Bellsmythe looked confused. 

'I'm not an anaesthetist,' he said with a hint of defiance. 

'And I'm not the NHS,' Sherlock answered. 'Do it. Imagine you wanted to put yourself under.'

Bellsmythe did as he was told, his hands shaking. 

'Great,' Sherlock said. 'Now do put yourself under.' 

To his surprise, Bellsmythe looked vaguely amused. Then, when he began to understand that Sherlock wasn't joking, he shook his head and sobbed violently. A small, wet patch appeared between his legs. 

'Inject yourself and you'll live. Don't, you'll die. Your choice.' Sherlock aimed the gun at Bellsmythe's chest to underline his point. 

'Are you gonna take my organs? Is that it?'

Sherlock laughed. 

'No, but close enough. If you have to know, I'm going to castrate you. I know what you do. What you've been doing for, what, five, six years? I did my research, and physical castration appears to be effective as far as re-offense rates are concerned.' 

He paused and enjoyed the look of sheer horror on Bellsmythe's face. 

'Relax,' he continued. 'I have practice. Molly lets me borrow her corpses from time to time. I believe you know her? Molly?'

Bellsmythe no longer reacted to anything that was said to him. If he was going to make an attempt to escape, the time was now. The gun was beginning to feel heavy in Sherlock's hands, and part of him hoped Bellsmythe would give him a reason. He didn't. Molly's name had done something to him, taking whatever inclination he might have had to fight. He sank down on the trolley at the centre of the ambulance, staring incredulously at the syringe in his hand. 

'Let's get this over with, then, shall we?' Sherlock said softly. 'There'll be plenty of time to chat later.'

The Rat nodded and rolled up his sleeve. 

-

Bellsmythe came to, his eyes still droopy and his face oddly formless. He blinked. 

'You'll be fine,' Sherlock said. He was sitting on the bench seat with his legs crossed, his coat lying neatly folded on the biohazard waste bin. There was a row of blood stains on his shirt, but other than that, everything was perfectly clean. He didn't suppose Bellsmythe would want to get the police involved, but nevertheless thought it wise to leave no traces of himself. 

Bellsmythe turned his face away. 

'Molly,' he whispered. 'Is she your friend?'

The question caught Sherlock off guard. He didn't, in fact, know if she was. She was a fixture in his life. He remembered her standing in his living room, crying, and her tears had moved, rather than annoyed him. Barely an hour earlier, he had been disconcertingly close to killing the man who'd hurt her, because he had hurt her. He wondered briefly if Molly would approve of what he'd done, and whether or not he would care if she did. Gotta do what you gotta do, Laurie Appleby had said. Grammar aside, Sherlock agreed. 

Bellsmythe, still half-gone, began to realise he was naked from the waist down, his groin heavily bandaged, and inelegantly curled himself into a ball. Sherlock stood up to check his pulse, hoping it would be safe to leave him alone. Bellsmythe raised an arm and somewhat clumsily covered his head. Sherlock paused. He remembered the only mirror in Bellsmythe's flat had been carefully covered. 

'You don't want me to look at you. Why?'

Bellsmythe laughed bitterly into the disposable sheets. 

'You know. You saw me.' 

Sherlock was bemused. There was nothing extraordinary about the man. Even features, a striking jawline, a slight rash. The latter the result of compulsive shaving. He was clearly delusional, and Sherlock suddenly felt very uncomfortable. He decided to leave; Bellsmythe would be fine on his own. He took his coat and scarf and dressed himself. 

'You should know,' he said, 'that this was a kindness. I'll be watching you. If necessary, I'll kill you after all. Do you understand?'

Barely visibly, Bellsmythe nodded. 

Sherlock had already opened the heavy door when he spotted a vial of ketamine in the pile of drugs Bellsmythe had assembled. _Take it_ , an old, familiar voice in him said. He did. 

-

It was half past one when he arrived back at Baker Street. To his surprise, John was still awake and working on his computer. Sherlock didn't know what else to do, so he picked up his violin and played. Notes suggested themselves, shaping the disarray of thoughts in his head into an elegant tune. There it was, a perfectly mathematical language for emotions; he didn't understand why anyone ever bothered with words. 

When he finished, John had stopped typing into his laptop and was watching him instead. 

'Get my coat,' Sherlock said, staring at his own reflection in the window. 'Please.' 

John sighed audibly, but saved whatever he was writing and stood up. 

'Right pocket.' 

Sherlock couldn't bring himself to turn around, simply listening as John searched his coat. There was a sharp intake of breath that told him John had found the ketamine. 

'Please get rid of that for me. I don't trust myself to do it.' 

'Sure.' There was no anger in his voice, but the disappointment was worse. 'Sure. Do you – do you wanna talk about it?' 

'No.'

John slipped the vial into his pocket, walked over, and briefly put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. 

In spite of himself, Sherlock smiled.

-

Molly was putting up new wallpapers in her bedroom, wearing a newspaper hat and a too-large dungaree. 

'Your brother's,' Sherlock stated. 

'The tools are, too,' she said. 'He's a real DIY man. Told me to call him when I've made mess. When, not if. James, that's him. He's an accountant.'

The tin of biscuits was standing on the table. 

'Help yourself,' Molly said. 'Coffee?'

Sherlock accepted, mainly because he needed her out of the living room for a moment. When she left for the kitchen, he took her mother's photograph out of his pocket and slipped it discreetly under Molly's picture shelf. She would assume it had fallen down. 

He tried a chocolate-covered biscuit, then another one, then found a bit of tinfoil he systematically tore into little pieces. For once, he had to admit he was out of his depth. He felt an unfamiliar desire to do the right thing and had no idea whatsoever what that was. 

Molly returned and clumsily passed him a hot mug, deliberately burning her fingertips so he could take the handle and not burn his. She made considerateness seem both foolish and effortless, and he simultaneously pitied and envied her for it. 

'So,' she said, trying to sound cheerful, but her voice came out trembling and high-pitched, and betrayed her utterly. 'Did you ... did you find something?'

'You shared a cab with Linda from Rheumatology and the man she was going home with; Darren, who's only recently had twin girls with his beloved wife. I wouldn't mention it if I were you; could be awkward. Then, you ran into Mrs Harroway from the flat below, who was on her way to catch an early morning flight to Bangkok. You fell, she spilled her coffee over your dress, you both said sorry, she helped you up, you went to bed. That's it.'

He briefly hoped she quite simply wouldn't believe him, but she seemed to trust his word over her own instincts. 

'Oh God,' she said. 'I'm such an idiot.' 

'You're not an idiot, Molly.' 

He said it with as much sincerity as he could master. He was afraid she would cry, and he didn't think he would be able to deal with that, so he gave her a preemptive hug, careful not to spill any coffee over her. 

Molly was caught entirely by surprise. 

'Thanks,' she mumbled, and smiled thinly. 'I should probably avoid piña coladas in the future, then.' 

'I'm really not one to talk,' he said, drawing a genuine laugh from her. He thought about the ketamine he'd pocketed the night before. 

'Sorry, I forgot,' she said, 'what do I owe you?'

'Don't be ridiculous, Molly. You don't owe me anything.' 

'Well, you can always have bodies. Dead bodies, I mean. You can have them.' She cringed. 

The stood in silence for a while, sipping coffee. 

'How's your landlady?' she asked. 'She's nice.'

'Mrs Hudson? She's having a party on Christmas Eve. She insisted I play the violin for her, or she'll have me pay for the acid stains in the bathtub.'

'You play the violin?'

'Obviously.'

Molly glared at him. 

'You should come, too. John would be happy to see you. He asked about you the other day.' 

'Oh! Really?' She hesitated. 'What about you?' 

'I'll be occupied entertaining Mrs Hudson, of course.' 

Molly smiled again. An awkward smile, but a smile. 

He finished his coffee, trying to read her without staring at her. She had slept, but not much. She ate, she talked. In the end, he had no way of knowing if she was truly alright. He'd thought this would be easier. 

'Thank you,' she said again when he was about to leave. He caught a glimpse of her newly renovated bedroom; it looked good. Her brother would be proud. 

He was almost out of the door when she stopped him. 

'The biscuits,' she said. 

'Come again?'

'You ate them, but you didn't yesterday. You don't eat when you're on a case. You said so.'

He stared at his own hand on the door knob and very nearly told her the truth. 

He didn't. He had told Laurie Appleby the truth. 

'Deduction is really not your strong suit, Molly,' he said instead. 

'No. Of course not.'

He waited a few seconds, but she remained quiet. 

'Okay. See you at Christmas, then,' she said, finally. 

'See you at Christmas.' 

When he closed the door behind him, he noticed his hands were shaking. 

**-**

Sherlock placed his scarf and gloves next to him on the bench. It was cold, but he didn't feel it. He leant forward, elbows on his knees, fingers folded. A noise filled Liverpool Street Station, and seconds after, a train rolled in. Sherlock watched as its doors opened and spit out its share of commuters. A lawyer with sleep apnoea. A mother of three on her way to a job interview. A violinist. In between voices and the low drone of the engine, he heard the soft staccato of an umbrella tipping on the ground. Mycroft sat down next to him, brushing aside the scarf and gloves. 

'The 5.48 from Southend Victoria,' he stated. 'You solved the Appleby case, then.'

'Not officially.'

'But you solved it.'

'Yes.' 

They sat in silence as the train left the station, Mycroft drawing indeterminate shapes onto the ground with the tip of his umbrella. 

'Is there a body?' he asked, finally. 

'No.' Sherlock leant back. 'But there very nearly was.' 

Mycroft nodded. 

'Are you feeling any guilt?'

'No.' 

'I didn't think you would.'

He rose elegantly. 

'Don't forget your scarf,' he said. 'It's freezing.'


End file.
